The postman and the ghost letters

The postman and the ghost letters

The postman walked the same old road,
As he had done for years,
He carried birthday cards and bills,
And sometimes carried tears.

But every year in early June,
One letter would appear,
With faded ink and wartime stamps,
The date was never clear.

The envelope was brown with age,
The corners bent and torn,
It carried words from some young man,
Before his child was born.

My darling wife, I miss you so,
The nights are cold out here,
But when this dreadful war is done,
I’ll soon be home my dear.

The postman knew the house it named,
He knew the little door,
But nobody had lived in there,
For fifty years or more.

He took the letter anyway,
And pushed it gently through,
Then heard a woman’s quiet voice,
Say thank you, just like new.

He froze upon the garden path,
And slowly turned his head,
For everybody in that street,
Knew that the wife was dead.

The following June another came,
The writing looked the same,
The same old stamp, the same old war,
The same forgotten name.

My darling, please don’t wait for me,
They send us out tonight,
And if I never make it home,
Remember me all right.

The postman pushed it through the door,
Then waited there once more,
He heard a woman softly cry,
Behind the empty door.

For twenty years he took those notes,
Through sunshine, snow and rain,
And every June the ghostly mail,
Would find its way again.

Then came the day he found two names,
Upon one envelope,
The soldier and his darling wife,
Together there in hope.

He carried it towards the house,
But stopped outside the gate,
Two shadows stood behind the glass,
As though they chose to wait.

The postman placed the letter down,
And watched them fade from view,
For somewhere war had finally ended,
And their waiting ended too.